


Ashes to Ashes

by cptnfrddy



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:24:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptnfrddy/pseuds/cptnfrddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young agent, Peter goes undercover to break up a prostitution ring and rescues a chid named Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was sitting on a stool at the hotel's bar, watching the game on the television mounted on the wall. He finished the scotch that had been sitting in front of him and signaled the bartender for another.

He was wearing a suit that was worth more than most people's yearly incomes and his name was not Hal Morgan.

Peter nervously straightened his own tie, careful not to brush the wire that was taped beneath his shirt. His hands were sweating and he subtly wiped them on his pants as he walked over to the bar. He sat in the seat next to not-Morgan, ignoring the look the other man threw at him, and ordered a whiskey.

Peter glanced up at the television as the bartender placed his drink in front of him and then walked over to another customer at the other end of the bar. The game had just gone to commercial.

"Who's winning?" he asked, picking up the drink.

The man turned to him. "What?"

Peter tossed back his drink and inclined his head towards the television.

"Patriots," came the disinterested reply.

"Shame," Peter said. "I'd been hoping the Bears would turn it around this season."

He grunted, ignoring Peter. Internally, Peter took a deep breath in preparation. He was man enough to admit, at least in his own mind, that he was nervous. He had only graduated from the academy a couple months ago and this was his first major case.

Peter had been the one to realize that the LIC Construction Firm, which had been loosely connected to a string of robberies throughout the five boroughs, was actually a front for Hal Morgan's unlawful operations. One of Morgan's more lucrative ventures just so happened to be a very successful prostitution ring. The FBI did not have enough evidence to get him on the robberies, but all they needed was indisputable proof of prostitution and they could arrest him as well as infiltrate his warehouse. So the FBI had managed to contact Morgan to place an order and Morgan agreed to meet them at the bar of this hotel with someone that would please 'Mr. Graham'.

Hughes had sent his probie, Peter, undercover as the john, Colin Graham.

The other more seasoned agents in his office teased Peter for three days about the fact that his first time on the field he was picking up a hooker. They told him to ask her for a few pointers since he had not had a girlfriend since sophomore year of college. Peter just ignored the older agents' good natured ribbing. Was it his fault he was too busy at the moment for a relationship?

Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope with ten thousand and a simple circle drawn in the corner and slid it across the bar to the other man. Peter had thought that Morgan seemed too smart to actually come do the business himself, but it had not occurred to him that Morgan would probably send someone else to pretend to be him.

Pretend Morgan quickly glanced in the envelope and then placed it in the pocket inside his suit jacket. He then stood and walked towards the elevators in the lobby. Peter waited a few moments, and then followed.

He walked into the elevator the other man had just entered and watched as he pushed the button for the fifteenth floor.

They stood in silence for a minute. "Was it all there?" he asked.

The other man just nodded. Peter suppressed an eye roll. There was no point to a wire if the suspect did not give him anything.

Peter shifted and cleared his throat as the lit numbers above the doors showed him that they were now moving to the seventh floor. He has had root canals that were quicker and less painful than this elevator ride.

"You've never done this before," Fake Hal stated from beside him. Peter's head shot up, his first thought that he had somehow blown his cover.

The other man wore a knowing smirk. "Just calm down and enjoy it."

Relief flooded Peter as he realized the man had apparently misinterpreted Peter's nervousness. "Thanks for the advice," he replied, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his tone.

They finally reached the fifteenth floor and Peter followed the man to a room all the way at the end of the hotel. The halls were just as decadent as the lobby and Peter could only assume that the room that he was about to enter would be one he would never be able to afford in his own life. Peter pushed the thought away, having forced himself months ago to come to terms with the fact that he would never get the perks with this job that he may have had if he had pursued another career route.

Not Morgan produced a key from one of his many pockets and opened the door. Peter followed him in, but then almost backed out again.

Peter had never felt as sickened as he did at that moment. Lying stretched out on the bed was a small boy with curly brown hair. He looked like he was probably around eleven or twelve, but his slight frame made him look even younger. He was skinny, too skinny, and Peter could make out fading bruises on his wrists and neck.

The worst part was that they had dressed him in pajamas with red fire trucks on them. He looked so young and innocent, like he just waiting for his parents to tuck him in. The only thing that ruined the image was that the boy was blinking owlishly up at the ceiling, obviously not registering that there were others in the room. Or if he did notice, he just did not care.

Peter was either going to be sick or punch a wall. Or this bastard's face. "What's he on?" he asked, proud that he was able to keep his voice steady even though all he wanted to do was rage at the injustice of this moment and arrest this 'man' (he used this term loosely) here and now.

The bastard shrugged. "Just something to keep him quiet," he replied nonchalantly. Peter saw red. "This one's a fighter. If that's what you want, next time make sure to say that and we'll lower the dosage." He moved towards the door, leaving the key on a side table. "I'll be back in three hours." Then, he left.

Peter wanted to follow him. Wanted to throw him against a wall and tighten the handcuffs around his wrist until it was too painful for him to even try to flex his hands. Wanted to send him away so that he never saw the light of day again.

But that was not his job. His job was to stay here and maintain his cover, while Hughes and his backup followed the other man back to Morgan.

Peter turned back to the child, who had not moved the entire time he had been in the room. "Hey, Buddy," he greeted softly and moved slowly towards the bed, so as to not frighten the boy if he was aware enough to even have that sort of reaction. "You're safe now. I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

Peter got close enough so that he was at the edge of the bed and could see the kid's face. His pupils were blown so wide that Peter could just barely make out what was probably their regular blue coloring at the very edges. The child's features were completely slack and Peter was worried that he was too late, until the boy sluggishly blinked and listless eyes landed on him momentarily. They almost instantly moved away again.

"Can you hear me?" Peter asks gently, slowly lowering himself beside the kid on the bed. He raised a hand to place in front of his face to see if he was tracking, but the kid weakly flinched away.

"I'm not going to hurt you, okay?" Peter softly reassured him, lowering his hand again. The kid just dully stared at a point beyond Peter, not reacting as he spoke. Peter did not know if this was because he could not understand him, or because this is what his rapists always told him.

Screw protocol.

And screw his cover.

"My name is Peter," he told the child. "I'm with the FBI. You're alright now. You're safe. I'm going to get you out of here very soon, okay? As soon as my friends get here, we're going to take you somewhere safe. Can you tell me your name?"

The boy slowly turned his head away, continuing his lethargic blinking in a new direction.

Peter's heart broke a little as he stared down at the track marks visible on an arm where the sleeve had been left rolled up. There were fresh marks, but there were also ones that seemed much older. Whatever was running through the kid's system was stopping him from either comprehending the situation or even caring.

Peter did not have kids. Had never even really been in the same room as one for any extended period of time since he was a kid himself. He was not good with kids and did not know how to act around a kid, especially not a beaten, traumatized, and drugged against his will child.

Not knowing what to do for the boy until backup arrived was killing Peter, so he reached out and began stroking the boy's hair in what he was hoping was a comforting gesture. The kid did not react. Peter did not know if that was good or bad, so he continued.

"I have a dog," Peter blurted out. He needed to somehow get the kid to notice him and all his other attempts had failed. All kids like dogs, right? "Well, he's not exactly my dog. I'm not sure whose dog he was. But he followed me home one day. I gave him a bagel and he just never left. I put signs up around the neighborhood, but no one claimed him. So I kept him. Or he kept me. Whichever." The boy's head turned slightly back towards him. Encouraged, Peter continued. "I named him Tom. Actually, I named him Major Tom because sometimes, when he wants food or a bone, he tries to herd me into the kitchen where I keep his things. Like dogs on farms do to sheep. I think he thinks he's a drill sergeant. But I sounded ridiculous calling him Major at the dog park, so now I just call him Tom. But when he looks at me, I can tell he thinks he's still the boss."

Peter glanced down at the kid and saw that there was a slight uplifting to his lips. He relaxed slightly, knowing the kid was somewhat alert to his surroundings, and smirked down at the kid. "You think that's funny?" he asked gently, keeping his tone light. "My dog won't let me be the man of my own house!"

"Burke," he heard a voice call from the door. Peter looked up and saw Miller, a fellow agent, in the door. The man's gaze fell on the boy, his face briefly twisting in anger before he smoothed it back out into his usual professional stoic expression, "We got Morgan. There are more kids, but they are all being taken to a hospital now."

Peter nodded, exhaling in relief, when the boy next to him suddenly stiffened. Peter looked down, his hand pausing in the thick, curly hair. "Kid, you okay?" he asked, concerned. The child's eyes suddenly rolled up in his head, until only the whites were visible, and his entire body began violently jerking.

"Shit!" Peter growled, cradling the slight boy in his lap in an attempt to stop the jerking limbs from causing further damage to the child. "Get an EMT in here now," he yelled at Miller, who was already hurrying out the door.

"Hold on," he whispered to the seizing boy in his arms. "You're going to be fine. You just need to hold on."


	2. Chapter 2

The EMTs arrived only moments after Miller left the room and immediately gave the boy something to stop the seizing. He was as still and pliant as a rag doll as they loaded him onto the gurney and rolled him away.  
Peter had wanted to go to the hospital with the kid, but he had to go back to the office. There were paperwork and debriefings that he needed to take care of. He also wanted to write his report while the details were still fresh in his mind to ensure that the most accurate evidence was available for court to put these bastards away for life

Peter was writing his third version of what exactly he had observed in the hotel room and was on his fifth cup of coffee-flavored water when he felt a hand clap him soundly on the back.   
Peter turned around (his movement may possibly have been better described as jumped, but in his defense he had been devoting ALL of his attention to his paperwork over the past four hours) and saw Hughes towering over his own hunched form. Only the slight upturn of Hughes’ lips indicated that he noticed Peter’s jerky movements.

“Go home, Burke,” Hughes said, his amused tone sounding strange when paired with such a solemn expression. 

Peter nodded. “I will, sir. I just need to finish…”

“No,” Hughes sternly retorted. “Now. You did good today. So go get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with a final warning look, Hughes walked back towards his own darkened office.

Peter snorted and stretched, feeling the strain of his sore back from leaning over his desk so long. He looked at his watch. It was nearly one in the morning and Peter was exhausted. But he did want to find out about the kid. Last time Peter saw him, he was… bad.

Peter just needed to check on him.

Forty minutes later, Peter finally arrived at the hospital. He grimaced as the smell of antiseptic and illness hit him the moment he walked through the automatic doors, but he still made his way up to the exhausted looking women working in the nurse’s station.

The nurse looked up as he walked up to her desk. "May I help you?"

“Hello, My name is Peter Burke,” he responded, holding up his FBI badge. “A group of children were brought in by FBI agents this afternoon and I wondering if you could tell me about one of the boys. I don’t know his name, but he was around ten. He had a seizure and…”

The nurse’s bored face crumbled in sympathy. “Oh yes, Johnny. That poor dear,” she murmured as she typed on her computer. 

“Johnny?” Peter questioned.

The nurse blushed, glancing up from her computer. “Unlike the other children brought in today, we haven’t been able to locate the family or medical records for him. So we’ve been calling him John Doe…. Johnny.” The woman looked back down at her monitor. “He’s in room 316. Dr. Yu is up there right now with him. You can go speak to him.”

Peter nodded his thanks and quickly walked to the elevator

He approached room 316 just as an aging man in scrubs and a white lab coat exited the room. Peter sped up in order to catch him before he disappeared down the corridor. “Dr Yu,” Peter called to the doctor’s retreating back.

The man stopped and turned around. “Yes”

“Uh… hello, sorry. I’m Agent Peter Burke,” Peter said, stopping in front of him. “My colleagues brought the kid in Room 316 and the others in today.”

“Right,” the Doctor responded, momentarily glancing at the clock on the wall before turning back to Peter. “I believe we already sent in our preliminary reports from the children earlier tonight.”

“Uh, yea…. No,” Peter stammered, trying to think of how to phrase what he was trying to say properly. “I found… umm… the kid. I just want to know how he is doing?”

Dr. Yu studied Peter for a moment and then nodded, looking down at the clipboard in his hand. “The boy’s in stable condition. He has three cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, and extensive bruising covering most of his torso and lower body. He had a second seizure two hours ago and was having difficulty breathing, so he is on a ventilator right now. This is just a precaution, though, and he is already breathing on his own again so we will probably take him off the ventilator in the morning. We believe he had been given an overdose of heroin mixed with something impure, which caused the seizure. We’ll know more when the tox screen comes back.” The doctor paused, lowering his clipboard, and looked Peter directly in the eye. “As I’m sure your probably already aware of, there is also evidence of not only physical, but long term sexual abuse.”

Peter had already figured as much, but he still flinched when he heard the doctor say it out loud. “Do you know how long?” he asked, clearing his throat once he realized how strangled he sounded.

Dr. Yu shook his head. “No. Unfortunately, there is no way to determine that.”

Peter nodded, looking for the first time into the darkened room where he could just make out a tiny silhouette on the bed. “Can I see him?”

“Visiting hours are over,” the doctor stated. Peter opened his mouth to protest, when the man continued. “But, Agent, you can sit with him for a few minutes.”

Peter thanked him and the man nodded wearily, walking slowly through a door that read ‘Personnel Only.’ 

Peter walked into the room and stopped when he saw the tiny form lying on the bed in the middle of the room. The dark bruises Peter had noticed before now stood out in stark contrast to his almost translucent skin. His chest slowly and rhythmically expanded as the ventilator pumped air into him, which was the only movement coming from the still little boy. 

Peter collapsed into the chair next to the bed and studied the kid’s features. It was just too much. He was so… small. Peter was not naïve to how the world worked. He had heard stories of many horrendous crimes while he was in the Academy and even had some firsthand experience during his short time working for the FBI, but never like this. Never with an innocent kid.

He slowly took the little hand into his much larger one and gave it a gentle squeeze.

He fell asleep that way, sitting guard next to the boy’s bed for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting on his futon, watching college basketball and drinking an ice-cold beer.

No…. 

Relaxing on a lounge chair under a palm tree and sipping one of those fruity, colorful drinks with a paper umbrella in it. (Which he is comfortable enough in his sexuality to be seen drinking, despite what his ex from college said when they went to that luau mixer. He just usually prefers a simple, non-frilly beer, thank you very much.)

Still… No

No matter where Peter tried to imagine himself, he still could not get his mind off this case. He had woken up this morning to find the kid awake, panicking, and trying to pull the tube out of his throat. The nurses quickly sedated him before he could hurt himself, but at least they agreed with the boy’s self-diagnosis and took him off the ventilator.

A few hours later, Peter got a call from one of the other agents on the case. The kid’s father, Carl Anderson, sold him to Hal Morgan three years ago for a quarter gram of meth. Anderson, aka Father of the Year, traded his only child (Neal, Peter reminded himself) for a single high. Anderson died from an overdose a month later. Peter was grateful because otherwise he would have probably ended up with a life sentence for killing the piece of shit.

They were still trying to locate Neal’s mother.

Peter sighed, not feeling any calmer, and rested his throbbing forehead on the cool wall in front of him. He knew those relaxation techniques the academy psychologists taught them during those seminars for coping in a stressful situation were utter crap.

A tap on his shoulder and a worried sounding, “Are you okay?”, interrupted him from his slightly hostile thoughts about the federal funding of glorified quacks

Peter stiffened and reminded himself that, yes, he was standing in a very public hospital gift shop where anybody could see his momentary lapse from reality. “Yea, fine. I was just,” he turned and found curious blue eyes staring back at him. “I…” he closed his mouth when he forgot what he was going to say and instead took a step forward. Apparently there was a short table covered with get well cards in front of him, which he did not recall being there before his surprisingly unhelpful commune with the dingy grey wall, and he stumbled into it when he moved towards her, knocking the table and cards to the ground with a large clatter.

“Wonderful,” he muttered, crouching to attempt to gather up the mess as quickly as possible. He placed the table upright and piled the hastily gathered (and somewhat crumpled) cards on top.

“Here,” she said, offering him the cards he had missed. She was beautiful, with long brown hair and the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. She gave him one dimpled smile, her eyes twinkling with restrained laughter, and he was reduced to a flushing thirteen year old.

He chuckled in a poor attempt to conceal his embarrassment. “Thanks,” he said. “I… uh... I didn’t see it,” he finished lamely, feeling his flush deepen.

Her dimples became more pronounced as her smile widened. "Clearly," she agreed, nodding solemnly.

Peter genuinely laughed at that, but then inwardly sighed when he saw the elderly clerk glaring at them and looking as if to storm over. "I should probably buy one of these..." he glanced down at the bent card in his hand, "outrageously overpriced cards. Seriously? It's a piece of paper!"

She picked up a card of her own. "I'm sure there are many people who would be willing to pay good money for sentimentality like this," she said.

Peter glanced at the cartoon on the cover of hers. "It's a doctor threatening a turtle with a needle."

“It’s kind of cute,” she responded, wrinkling her nose adorably at the kitschy drawing.

“It’s animal abuse. What person would be comforted by the torturing of turtles?”

“So I’m guessing you won’t be buying this one,” she giggled, placing the card back on the pile. 

Peter thought of the track marks on Neal's arms and his silent panic attack and shook his head. He doubted the poor kid would react well to something like that. "I'll stick with seven dollars worth of drawn balloons saying 'Feel Better'."

"Well I'm sure whoever you buy it for will really appreciate it," she said. "I'm Elizabeth, by the way," she informed him, holding out her hand.

He smiled, shaking her hand. “Peter. So… Are you getting a card?” 

Elizabeth nodded. “My grandfather broke his hip last week. I thought maybe a card and some flowers would brighten up his room.” She stepped over to a display of tiny figurines. “Are you visiting someone?” she asked.

“Yea, I’m visiting my,” Peter paused, searching for a way to describe this situation to an outsider. He decided on simply being vague. “Neal. He’s eleven. I’m not sure what he would like.” 

“Oh, okay. Hmm,” she murmured, walking over to another table. Peter, after a moment’s deliberation, followed and watched her rummage around the various ‘gifts’ displayed there. “Here we go,” she declared, flourishing a plush monkey. It wore a stethoscope.

Peter raised an eyebrow and took the monkey for closer inspection. “Are you sure? Isn’t it a little girly?”

“It’s just a toy,” Elizabeth answered, shrugging. “If he’s stuck in a hospital, it might be comforting.”

“I guess I can give it a try,” Peter said. He looked at the card and stuffed animal in his hands, then smiled at the beautiful brunette. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem,” Elizabeth responded. “I hope your Neal feels better soon.” She began walking towards the flowers in the back. “It was nice meeting you, Peter,” she said over her shoulder, giving him another gorgeous smile.

“I hope your grandfather gets better, too,” he called back. Peter knew he had a ridiculously goofy grin on his face, but could not bring it in himself to care even when the angry clerk snorted in amusement while ringing up his purchases.

And the grin still was not wiped off his face when he realized the man had overcharged him for the damn card. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Peter saw when he walked into Neal’s bedroom was an empty bed. The covers were crumpled on the ground and the IV needle, which should have been attached to Neal’s hand, was dangling off the side of the bed.

He momentarily panicked, thinking Morgan had somehow hurt the boy in retaliation for his arrest, but then he heard a muffled whimper. Peter looked around, searching the corners and empty closet. It was not until he heard a small cough that he realized the sounds were coming from under the bed.

Peter lowered himself until he was lying flat on the ground. He found himself, for the second time that day, looking into a set of blue eyes. Only instead of flirty and amused, these eyes were frightened and suspicious.

“Hey Neal,” he quietly greeted. “What are you doing down here, buddy?” Neal simply stared at him through the limp curls covering his eyes. 

“Do you want to come back onto the bed?” The kid ignored him, curling his little body up into a protective ball. Peter sighed. 

“I bought you a toy monkey from the store downstairs. I can show it to you when you get back on the bed,” Peter attempted to bribe him. Neal continued to ignore him, just curling tighter onto himself.

Peter lost track of how long the two of them laid there. He was waiting for the kid to get tired of the floor and get on the bed, and he assumed Neal was just waiting for him to go away.

Then Neal began coughing. It was one of those long painful-sounding bouts that did not give the boy a chance to catch his breath. Peter instinctively reached over to pat his back. The kid flinched, which seemed to only make the coughing worse. When Neal started wheezing between each cough, Peter decided that the kid’s phobia of touch was not worth the boy asphyxiating because of a speck of dust

He pulled Neal from his hiding spot and onto his lap, gently patting him on the back. Eventually, the coughing tapered off. Peter, once he was sure the boy was okay, reluctantly allowed the boy to extract himself and retreat to his hiding spot under the bed.

Peter slowly began pulling himself back onto his feet. “I”ll be right back, Neal. I’m just going to get the doctor to…”

“No!” Peter froze at the sound of the terrified exclamation. He looked down at the boy. “You know the doctors won’t hurt you, right Neal?” Neal simply shook his head and tucked his face beneath a skinny arm.

“I swear the doctor won’t hurt you. I would never let him,” Peter promised. He watched the kid for a moment. It did not look like Neal was in any immediate danger, so Peter reluctantly sat back down against the wall. “Okay,” he conceded, “we can just sit here for awhile.”

Neal decided that he was ignoring Peter again so they just sat on the floor silently. Peter hoped the boy would eventually fall asleep so he could get him on a bed and call in a nurse. After a few minutes, Peter reached up and pulled the monkey off the table he had dropped it on. 

He set it on the floor near himself, where Neal could see it if he ever lifted his face from where it was tucked into his elbow.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

About an hour later, Peter realized he must have dozed off himself because he woke to find a small body, with a plush monkey wrapped in his arm, pressed against his thigh.


End file.
